Junkyards are not to be confused with garbage dumps. Garbage dumps, which are also called tips, landfills, or rubbish dumps, are the final resting place of our daily waste. These have been around for as long as people have lived together and needed a place to toss things they no longer had a use for.

The key here is “no longer had a use for.”

By contrast, junkyards are only temporary storage facilities, not final resting places. They have been around only since we started driving automobiles. People realized that they needed cheap parts to keep their cars and trucks running. Some savvy business person decided to address this need and started the first junkyard to sell off usable parts before selling the remaining carcass as scrap metal.

The Oxford English Dictionary traces the first written use of “junkyard dog” to 1936. This timing aligns with the Great Depression when the value of scrap metal and spare parts skyrocketed, making junkyards prime targets for theft. Owners started using dogs as a cheap way to protect their investments.

These unattended dogs (or cats, as is the case in the above image) had no packs or humans to socialize their behaviour and rapidly developed a fearsome notoriety. Songwriter Jim Croce, who coined the “meaner than a junkyard dog” trope in 1973, noted that owners often tied heavy objects to a dog’s collar to slow it down, giving customers a chance to escape if the animal charged. I think that is a pretty good measure of how “mean” these dogs were.

Beyond the literal hounds that patrolled these lots, the vehicles themselves have become the industry’s ultimate “dogs.” They were abandoned as poor performers once their mechanical reliability failed. Yet, as you will see, they achieve a second life as icons of weathered character. Their surfaces, once shiny and smooth, are now textured with rust. Holes puncture their bodies, like some ancient body piercing ritual gone awry. The once-precise geometric intent of the designers has yielded to the organic, jagged distortions caused by entropic decay.

All of this gives them a very gruff, mean look, like the real junkyard dogs. Also like the real thing, these metaphoric dogs have an unexpected, pleasant personality waiting to be discovered, if you know how to approach them. They have wonderful shapes, lines, and textures, all waiting to tell a story if you are patient enough to look for it. For example, there is an interesting parallel between their façade gradually fading and how the plants, which typically surround the old vehicles, have their own fight with decay.

In the end, these rusting relics are much more than discarded commercial products. They stand as quiet testaments to the relentless passage of time and the organic beauty that entropy can generate. We only need to look past their jagged exteriors to appreciate the stories they still have left to tell. Finding this beauty enriches our own lives.

In Part 1 of this focus on Sognsvann, I talked about the shifting light and the “Sognsvannglow” that defines its landscape. While those artistic and seasonal rhythms are vital, they only represent one side of the lake. Sognsvann is also a social landscape. It is a place where nature and community intersect.

In this second part I will look at the local residents and the unique spirit of friluftsliv that brings people together at all hours.

Sognsvann Sentinel

A photo of cross-country skiers on a frozen Norwegian lake with a snowman for an audience might seem cliché, but I believe this image perfectly illustrates how the Sognsvann landscape comes alive with human presence. That ever-present Sognsvannglow doesn’t hurt, either.

I took this using a phone camera. While the image clearly lacks sharpness, it still successfully communicates the emotion and atmosphere of that moment.

Morning Stillness

The small island on the right is an icon of Sognsvann. From every vantage point around the lake you will see it. Along with the local ducks, it appears time and again in my photos. Seeing these two elements recur as the seasons shift around them is a fascinating study.

Ducks at Dawn

Mist is common at Sognsvann during autumn mornings. The air has cooled from its summer highs, yet the water remains relatively warm. It is best to capture this scene just before sunrise. Once the sun crests the horizon, the heat quickly overpowers the delicate fog.

Oslo Kommune built this ramp to provide everyone with access to the water. This design reflects a characteristically Norwegian commitment to inclusiveness. The structure allows all people to enjoy the lake regardless of their physical mobility. It stands as a silent invitation into the morning mist.

Mist and Mallards

One of the many dimensions of beauty you can observe at Sognsvann is the monochrome nature of a foggy day. Here, some of the many ducks that call Sognsvann “home” swim towards me, in search of a handout.

Breakfast for Two

The ducks always approach me whenever I go close to the shore. I would like to think it is because animals have an affinity for me. However, I suspect the prospect of getting fed is the real motivator.

Still, enjoying a sunrise while sipping a cup of hot cocoa with a duck for companionship is not a hardship. It is a peaceful way to start the day at Sognsvann.

Autumn Patrol

Here the local ducks cruise through mist towards people grilling food on a nearby beach.

You can see the mist in the background, rising from the warmer water into the crisp autumn air. Yet you cannot see it in the foreground because the warm reflection of sunset reduces the contrast of the delicate texture of the mist.

Ut på tur, aldri sur

There is no equivalent English expression for the above Norwegian one, but I think this might come close: “Out and about, never a pout.”

I love early winter morning walks when the sun is out and the air is crisp. They are so invigorating and rejuvenating. I am not the only one who thinks so, as I am never alone at such times at Sognsvann.

Morning Ritual

Norwegians embrace friluftsliv, which means “open air living”. I think this photo, taken in the early hours of an autumn morning, is a great example of this. Despite shorter days, cooler weather, and colder water, this group of friends has still turned out for a refreshing dip to start their day.

A Social Landscape

From spring through autumn, the lake fills with people swimming, grilling, and playing. While the crowds can feel claustrophobic when compared to the stillness of early morning, I appreciate seeing so many people find their own connection to nature.

Urban Angler

Taken from one of my favourite spots at Sognsvann, looking south towards the farm. In the summer, many people fish off of the several docks scattered around the lake. I would imagine for people who like to fish, this is a dream spot due to the tranquility typical of a forest lake, yet it has easy access from Oslo via the urban train system.

These days it is a very busy place. The final stop on line 5 of the Oslo T-bane (subway) is a mere five-minute walk from the circumferential path. That path is now properly graded, bridges provide safe crossing of all of the creeks, and lights banish the dark.

Dancing with the Moon

I took this image from the same spot on the north shore as “Urban Angler”. However, it was not summer but a very early, very frosty, late fall morning. A dancer and I were creating a series of portraits and we decided to see what a “less-portrait, more-landscape” composition might look like. I love how the light enhances her red dress, spotlighted by the water’s reflection of the sky, as she dances with only me and the moon for an audience.

Front Row at Sognsvann

I don’t think there are better front row seats to Nature’s show than these two. It is a great place to sit with a friend, to sip a mug of hot cocoa, and to enjoy the spectacle of a rising sun.

The Midnight Forest Social

There is a saying within the immigrant and expat community in Norway that if you want to talk to Norwegians, you have to go into the forest. Take this story as an illustration of this point.

I arrived at Sognsvann around 1 a.m. to photograph noctilucent clouds (the bright pale blue clouds in the photo). I stayed for almost three hours. Despite being in the forest in the middle of the night, I spent most of that time chatting with Norwegians!

One man in his eighties was heading toward a traditional forest lodge. These stuer function like cafés. He left in the middle of the night to arrive by opening time. He planned to enjoy a coffee and a waffle before hiking back. His determination was remarkable. We chatted about the old days and exchanged thoughts about the younger generations.

I met a young woman who was interested in photography and aspired to be a model. I shared photo stories and dispensed tips.

I also met two young engineering students. They were searching for the Northern Lights. I shared engineering stories and career advice while sipping my cocoa. I almost forgot the sky behind me. I eventually turned to press the shutter for this image. My night of solitude became a way to fill my extroverted fuel tank.

I think that this retrospective walk through my catalogue of Sognsvann images is as enlightening as my more recent Oslofjorden project. While both are a study of how a landscape lives and breathes over time, the Oslofjorden anthology has minimal evidence of humans. This contrasts with the Sognsvann collection and how it beautifully reflects the Norwegian concept of friluftsliv through the appearance of people (and ducks) in many of the images.

My last two posts have been about my Oslofjorden project, where I studied the benefits of photographing the same landscape over many years. After writing them, I realized I have another collection of such images, an entirely accidental one. The subject of this collection is Sognsvann, a lake sitting in the forest belt that surrounds Oslo.

I began running at Sognsvann many years ago. Back then, it was a rustic place. Creeks flowed over pathways as they replenished the lake. In the winter, they created ice obstacles that I had to gingerly cross with only the light from my headlamp to illuminate the way.

I quickly discovered something. At Sognsvann, no matter the weather or season, there is always a view that makes me catch my breath. My runs and walks took much longer because I was always stopping to stare at something, but I began to capture those moments on my phone. Those early cameras were crude, but they worked well enough to capture the mood of the moment.

Looking through both sets of images, I realize that Sognsvann benefits from the same seasonal light as Oslofjorden does. The light is high and harsh in the summer and low and colourful in the winter. Both projects reveal how a landscape can “breathe” throughout the year.

There are two fundamental differences, however.

The first is that the Oslofjorden imagery relies on a long lens. I used it to “extract” compositions from the vista. At Sognsvann, I took most of the photos with a wide-angle lens. These images are more encompassing.

The second is that at Sognsvann I am always standing in the vista itself, often with other people. So it is impossible to avoid having people in many of the photos. Indeed, I would argue that the human element is a part of the Sognsvann story, and using a wide-angle lens supports it.

The differences in the results are startling.

In my last essay, I talked about how the long-term study revealed the quiet beauty of solitary minimalism. This essay highlights an entirely different attribute of the landscape. It demonstrates how a natural environment breathes alongside the people who use it, generating a more encompassing view of nature. The human element is never a distraction from the scenery. It remains a vital component of the narrative.

The local wildlife is an equally important part of this environment. The resident ducks frequently approached me whenever I stopped along the shoreline, introducing a distinctly warming element to my compositions.

The BlackBerry Pine

This is my first photo taken at Sognsvann. This image marks the beginning of my journey observing how multidimensional the beauty of the lake is. Taken with a BlackBerry Torch, this photo is a technically poor shot. It has poor resolution, a lot of noise, and narrow dynamic range. Perhaps it is this poor performance, in particular the narrow dynamic range, that makes it work. The photo successfully captures that “fresh start to a new season” feeling that I always get when out walking in the first snow of the year.

Choppy Waters

In the summertime, the sun doesn’t really set so much as it wraps around from the north. Even in the early morning, the sun is high in the sky, producing a strong, directional light. This is usually the time photographers put away their cameras. But on this rare, blustery day, the strong light gave excellent texture to the choppy water and also rendered it this nice, deep hue of blue.

Lesson in Geometry

Sognsvann is sheltered on all sides. When it snows, the flakes gently layer on the trees, which is remarkable to see once the weather clears. Here, I observed a magnificent example of fractals in our world.

The Moon in the Mist

This is another example of a technically limited image that possesses a unique ability to warm the soul. I captured this mysterious perspective of Sognsvann during an early morning run as the full moon was setting. I felt compelled to stop and revel in the swirling mists. The occasional glimpses of the moon poking through the heavy clouds created a profound sense of tranquility.

First Light at the Lake

Fall at Sognsvann is beautiful. I enjoy arriving just before dawn to catch the golden light. Mist slowly rises from the waters. I draw the line at sitting on a broken bench, though.

Beyond Golden Hour

Autumn is a great time to watch a sunrise at Sognsvann. Even after the magical “golden hour” is over, the low angle of the sun allows the beautiful colours to stand out. Most photographers pack up and leave at this point, but here it pays to hang around for a bit longer. Sheltered on all sides from the wind, the water in the lake is often mirror smooth, allowing for crisp reflections that always take my breath away.

The Gilded Reflection

The sun has yet to crest the steep lip of the valley behind me on this early autumn day. Consequently, the lower trees along the shoreline remain shrouded in deep shadow. However, the light is high enough to illuminate the upper canopy with a searing radiance. These glowing trees act as a secondary source that sheds a vibrant warmth back across the mirror-like surface of the lake.

Sognsvannglow

Landscape photographers often talk about the “alpenglow” that graces mountain peaks at sunrise or sunset. Similarly, I consider winter sunrises at Sognsvann to possess a unique “Sognsvannglow.” Because the winter sun remains much lower in the sky than during the summer months, a long burn of yellows and golds lingers just after it crests the horizon.

Winter’s Pastel Breath

In the summer, heavy fog with low light usually means a flat, monochromatic vista. In the winter, there is little fog at Sognsvann, as the lake is usually frozen and covered with snow. Also unlike the summer, the sun crawls above the horizon and is in no rush to keep moving, so the hues and tones of a “regular” sunrise linger for what seems like an eternity.

In this case, the pre-sunrise sun painted lovely pastels all over a very rare mist that had gathered. It was like walking in a bowl of red jelly. I suspect that the fresh snow amplified the effect by bouncing the light back up into the mist.

Winter’s Golden Crown

This image is a testament to how long the sunrise light lingers in the winter. It was taken shortly after “Winter’s Pastel Breath” at the other end of Sognsvann. While the pastel hues have disappeared, the warm yellows and oranges are still dominant. These hues are much brighter than the earlier ones, as the sun is higher and more directional, so they do not visibly bounce around the mist lingering in the valley Sognsvann sits in.

In Part 2 of this essay, I look at how Sognsvann is a stage for a community, both for humans and animals. Stay tuned for an exploration of the friluftsliv that truly defines this place.

“When overcast, the fjord becomes a study in monochrome. The sky acts as a giant softbox, diffusing the light evenly, and the water often takes on a metallic sheen of silver and lead. In heavy fog or snow, the distinction between water and sky vanishes, creating a void-like, minimalist canvas.”

Despite writing this, I didn’t include any images to back it up. I hesitated because “minimalist monochrome” is rarely eye-catching at a glance. This left me with a stack of images in my “unused” pile. As I was about to archive this part of the project, I decided to do a full and considered review of this pile.

I learned a valuable lesson.

The benefit of constantly observing one vista isn’t just capturing variations in the overtly spectacular. It is also learning to appreciate the quietly profound.

In this stack of “rejects,” I found images that moved my soul because I was able to celebrate the subtlety of everyday beauty. However, there was a price to pay. Time. This quiet aesthetic required me to think about what I was seeing before it truly revealed itself. There is a beautiful irony that both the Norwegian landscape and its people require a bit of “exposure time” before they truly open up.

I think I was right in not using them initially. Such images are quiet and require a level of attention that I wasn’t sure readers would want to give. However, for those of you with the time for deeper contemplation, here are a few of those photos, along with a brief look at why I find them so compelling.

The Ghost of the Fjord

When the horizon dissolves, the landscape stops being a map and starts being a story. In these conditions, Oslofjorden is reduced to a series of overlapping silhouettes. Without the distraction of a blue sky or sharp sunlight, the mind begins to fill in the blanks. I initially rejected this for being “empty,” but the longer I looked, the more it felt like a stage waiting for an actor. Now that I have “settled” into the image, I can almost see a Viking longboat ghosting out from the fog at the far end.

A Memory of Salt and Snow

At first glance, this image feels repetitive. It is yet another study in the monochromatic weight of an Oslo winter. However, it is the most personal image in the collection and therefore worthy of inclusion. The way the snow-muted landscape forces the eye to settle on the ice of Bunnefjorden is a direct echo of my childhood in Newfoundland. It is a visual language I learned long before I ever picked up a camera. It is a landscape where the sea and sky become one, and the ice is the only constant. The image makes me realize that we don't just photograph what is in front of us; we photograph the echoes of the places we’ve been.

The Fjord as a Scrim

On a typical summer day, my eye wants to wander all the way to the horizon, chasing the blue of the water until it meets the sky. But here, the weather has other plans. By acting as a literal scrim, this heavy layer of fog cuts the world in half, blocking my view beyond Osloøyene. I initially felt this image was "obstructed." But perhaps the obstruction is the point. It forces us to stop looking at the distance and start appreciating the details of the foreground—the textures of the city and the weight of the air itself.

Atmospheric Compression

In this image, the snow acts as a physical gradient, washing out the world in stages. While the distance has surrendered to a total, "void-like" monochrome, the foreground remains stubbornly tethered to reality. I am fascinated by how the reds and yellows of the cranes at the bottom of the photo refuse to be muted. Defiantly, they stand out against the blandness beyond. It’s a visual reminder that even in a heavy snowfall, the world doesn't vanish all at once. It retreats slowly, leaving us with these small, bright anchors.

A Moment in the Sun

This is a great reminder to pay attention when Mother Nature tells you to. How many times have I looked at this treeline on Lindøya, yet remained oblivious to it? But this time, a shaft of light focuses my eye on it, while the rest of the fjord fades into obscurity. As if to further solidify these trees in my mind, their orange hues mirror those in the clouds on the horizon.

The Kinetic Dawn

While the contrast and colours here are magnificent, I rejected this image for my first post. There is a specific energy to this image that I feared might be lost on a casual observer. It takes a few moments to understand the contrast in speeds represented by the two light sources. The long exposure captures the “kinetic” abstraction of clouds catching the first light of the rising sun. This movement contrasts with the static, grid-like geometry of the city lights as people begin to wake. It forms the bridge between the dreams of the night and the reality of the day.

The Solitude of the Blue Hour

A quick glance at this image reveals almost nothing. But take a few moments to really look at it and to think about where your eye goes. The “why” of where it goes is very rewarding. For me, my eye first goes to the solitary beacon. Like a lighthouse, it sits directly on the horizon and anchors the image. After a few seconds, my eye slides toward the warmer glow of the house lights tucked into the hillsides. They feel warm to me, like small points of light standing out against the cold. I wait a few more seconds and notice that, in this light, the relationship between the elements is incredibly subtle—the ice of Bunnefjorden merges with the dark water and the looming silhouettes of the surrounding hills. In only a few moments, I now truly appreciate the unassuming grace of the moment.

The Band of Isolation

At first glance, this might seem like just another monochromatic study, but the light here is performing a highly specific task. It isn’t interested in the sky or the foreground. Instead, it provides a narrow band of interest that isolates the ice in Bunnefjorden from everything surrounding it. This cold, white line acts as a visual anchor against the heavy, brooding tones of the winter hills. Just above the horizon, there is a subtle golden glow—a brief hint of a sun I hadn’t seen in days—reminding me that even in the depths of an Oslo winter, the light is always working.

The Gathering Veil

This one took me a bit longer to appreciate than the others in this essay. Here, looking toward Bunnefjorden, I caught the exact moment a storm began to rewrite the landscape. The monochromatic effect was still building, as the falling snow moved in from the distance. It was acting like a slow-moving curtain. So at the time of capture, the transition remained incomplete. The icy water of the upper Oslofjord was as yet untouched. It was a dark liquid, in contrast to the ice of Bunnefjorden and the whiteout conditions approaching from the horizon. This image is a portrait of the landscape caught in the very act of vanishing. For me, it is another echo. It is a “ghost” of my childhood. The concept of the approaching whiteout is a visceral visual language that all Newfoundlanders will instantly recognize. It is the moment when the familiar world is traded for a vast, silent unknown.

For my Oslofjorden project, my goal was to capture many photos over a long period of time. I wanted more than a single instance of beauty on record. Viewed in the aggregate, this collection lays out the complexity and range of beauty that Oslofjorden has to offer. The images in that post revealed that patience is rewarded with a pattern of arresting imagery of our world.

Yet upon review I noticed that by selecting images that provoked an immediate response, I was ignoring the very thing I was searching for. Nature’s offering is not just the striking allure of the spectacular, but also the profound beauty of the ordinary. A second, slower pass through the images made me realize deep satisfaction lies not in the instant gratification of the breathtaking, but lies in that subtle beauty. For this is where life’s most interesting textures reside, ones that often provoke memories to come forward. Slowing down to appreciate these textures is certainly a skill worth developing.

Think about a tourist who sees a pretty view, takes a photo, and moves on. That snapshot preserves the emotion of a specific instant, one that lasted perhaps only 1/250 of a second. While it might be a great "Instagram Moment," it is only a single dimension of what is most likely a complex subject.

However, taking hundreds of images from the same spot over many years changes everything. When viewed together, these moments reveal a breathing landscape. This is not just 'taking pictures of a view.' It is a study of time and atmosphere, where you must exhaust the obvious. It forces you to find beauty in grey days and flat light—shifts that a casual observer would undoubtedly miss. This is how a photographer becomes an archivist of light.

My stage for this study is a bedroom window facing south-southeast, sitting at an elevation of 154 metres. From here, the view covers a wide arc. It stretches from due east to the south-southwest, taking in the Osloøyene and the inner reaches of Bunnefjorden.

Due to Oslo’s latitude, the sun’s path swings dramatically throughout the year.

In summer, the sunset is a "wrap-around" event. Because the sun sets far to the northwest, the light does not fade so much as it pivots. The light in June is expansive and generous. It floods the fjord from a high angle, illuminating the green canopy while leaving the water itself a deep, flat blue.

In winter, the geometry tightens, and the sun no longer wraps around the house but stays trapped within the southern view. It creates a short, low arc that hugs the horizon, setting in the southwest directly over the ridge of Nesodden. Instead of illuminating the view, the winter sun silhouettes it, creating a perpetual "golden hour" of intense gradients while it is up. The sky often turns pastel—soft pinks, apricots, and lilacs—reflecting off the icy water. It feels like an endless sunrise, a slow-burning gold that refuses to leave the sky.

When it finally sets, the sun plunges behind the Nesodden peninsula, instantly casting the fjord into shadow. Above, the sky burns a cold, brief violet. The light doesn’t paint the landscape; it slices through it. Long, raking shadows stretch from the Nesodden shoreline all the way to Svartskog before vanishing into the heavy blue hour.

Spring and autumn lie between these extremes, offering a varied mix of light. But one constant, regardless of the season, is the drama of the grey days. When overcast, the fjord becomes a study in monochrome. The sky acts as a giant softbox, diffusing the light evenly, and the water often takes on a metallic sheen of silver and lead. In heavy fog or snow, the distinction between water and sky vanishes entirely, creating a void-like, minimalist canvas.

As Nature takes this ever-shifting theatre of light and adds variations in weather, the bedroom window becomes a front-row seat to a dynamic performance.

Yet, the physical frame of the window can be restrictive. I found that including the entire view often weakened the emotional impact. Instead, I chose to 'extract' key parts of the scene using a long focal length. By isolating these specific elements, the images remained truer to the feeling of the moment.

This technique also compresses perspective. Although the end of Bunnefjorden lies 22 kilometres away, the lens pulls it forward, bridging the distance and creating visual intimacy. It builds a cozy bond between the viewer and the landscape.

While choosing high compression eliminates much of the surrounding visual clutter, it creates a new challenge: managing the "noise" at the edges of the frame. Normally, I would rigorously exclude bright lights or high-contrast elements near the borders to avoid distraction. However, here I chose to leave these traces intact.

Throughout these images, you might see the Color Line ferries at the bottom of the frame, alongside cranes, hotel lights, and the cabins on Lindøya. I left these intact to communicate a vital context. Within this view, there are a million people nearby, some of whom are likely gazing out at this same scene.

Inspired by Monet’s 'Haystacks,' this album captures moments of light and atmosphere by studying the Oslofjorden from a single vantage point over time.

Though this collection spans several years, the archive is far from complete. I have found that the longer I watch this stage, the more its subtleties reveal themselves. The light remains inexhaustible, and the study continues—perhaps to be gathered into a second volume in the years to come.

Hibakujumoku – The Trees Among Us.
Oslo Botanical Garden, 2025.

I went to the Botanical Gardens one day to look for a moonrise photo, but my chosen spot was covered in “bedsheets” and the shot was impossible. I normally love seeing sheets out on the line; I have many fond childhood memories of the smell of fresh laundry and the wind on my face. However, this was quite frustrating as my “free” time was now so limited. This was a botanical garden, so why the sheets?

I asked a nearby worker why the garden had sheets hanging from trees. I discovered that this was a multimedia installation featuring textiles, photography, and sound to tell the story of Hibakujumoku—the Japanese term for trees that survived the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The story of the trees was new to me, and my frustration turned to joy at learning of it.

To honour the resilience of nature, artist Helene Espedal-Selvåg had created the large woven textile works that I had mistaken for sheets. These were accompanied by a score composed by John Derek Bishop. Landscape architect Ekuko Naka orchestrated the experience, placing mats on the ground so visitors could lie down, look up at the trees, and listen. Being deaf, I had missed the music. I had indeed seen the mats, but of course didn’t connect them to the hanging sheets.

So while I didn’t get my moonrise image, I came away enriched from having learned about a lovely piece of art, new knowledge about the events at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I share that story with you together with the image I took just before I heard it.

Oslo trikkelinje. Oslo, 2025

I was on my way from the Deichman Bjørvika library to catch a nearby tram when I had to stop for traffic. The rails leading away from my position caught my eye as wonderful “leading lines” to the people crossing further up the street. I quickly took a shot with my iPhone to remind me to come back when I had more time to think through a composition. I did indeed come back several times and spent a couple of hours here, but I was never able to match the feeling of this mere scouting shot.

Operahuset ved solnedgang. Oslo, 2024

I had in mind either a sunrise or sunset image at Operahuset, where the light would be perfectly balanced—dark enough outside to reveal the interior of the iconic, glass-walled building, yet light enough to see the surrounding environment. I knew I would have mere minutes to capture such a photo, so a scouting trip was essential in order to pull off the timing. That is where this image came from.

Unfortunately, I never found the time to return, so this is all I have. I think it stayed in the rotation all year as a thorn in my side, reminding me to try again. Perhaps 2026 will be the year for it!

Høstfarger i sentrum. Oslo, 2025

I love this technically imperfect, blurry, and noisy image because of its human element - a collaborative discovery.

One autumn morning on her way to work, my wife noticed that enough leaves had fallen to let the Freia sign peek through. The sign, from the Freia chocolate company, is a well-known Oslo landmark dating back to 1909. She took a photo to show me, quite rightly thinking that I might want to go myself.

However, I thought the leaves were still too green and dense to let the sign stand out. I decided to wait. She kept an eye on the changing canopy for a couple of weeks and then gave me the nod to go see for myself. Within a few days, I had what I was looking for: a lovely canopy of yellow over most of the walkway, with just enough of a gap for the sign to be visible.

Bygdøy-padler. Oslo, 2025

One of my few exploratory hikes around the city in 2025 was to Bygdøy. There, I chatted with a couple of women walking their dogs along the beach. While we were talking, a man arrived with a kayak and set off for a paddle. I said goodbye to the ladies, walked up the shore, and waited until he passed this point. I love living in cities so connected to nature.

Rehabilitation. Oslo 2025

This building used to house the US Embassy to Norway. Years ago, I shot dance photos on the streets around it, but never closer than a block away. I found the building off-putting. It had a menacing feel: large steel fencing surrounded it, and the sidewalk was uncomfortably narrowed by massive security bollards. It made me feel that the building was cold, clinical, and inward-looking.

The building is now rehabilitated. It has a new goal: supporting the charitable work of Amnesty International and SOS Children’s Villages on the second floor, and incubating fledgling start-ups in a coworking space on the ground floor. The security features are gone, of course, and the general public now freely comes and goes. There is a rooftop bar and restaurant (named after the building’s architect, Eero Saarinen) and a brasserie, a wine bar, and a cafe on the ground floor. It feels like the building is now welcoming and outward-looking.

Do you recall the feeling of being outside surrounded by darkness, with the cold seeping through your jacket as you hurry to meet a friend at a bustling coffee shop, anticipating the warmth and brightness inside? That is what I felt standing here. I decided to contrast the cold, blue hues of a late fall evening with the warm light spilling out from inside to try to capture that feeling.

The Monolith. Oslo, 2025

The Monolith sits on the highest part of Frogner Park and is part of a display of sculptures by Gustav Vigeland. The Monolith took 14 years to complete and was sculpted by three stonemasons working from a clay model that Vigeland made. It is carved from a single, massive block of granite and is 14m high. The Monolith features 121 interwoven human figures rising from the base. It sits on a plateau surrounded by 36 figural groups, also in granite, depicting various stages and aspects of human life. I have heard at least three theories about what it represents. All that Vigeland has said about it (that I can find) is that “the column is my religion”.

I went to Frogner Park late one day to catch a full moon rising just as the sun set. The moon was initially a deep red, transitioning to orange, and I took this image just as the colour matched that of the lights on the display. I had to underexpose the shot to make sure the moon was not too bright, so the result is a bit darker than what I saw. This makes it difficult (but not impossible) to see the people standing at the Monolith watching the moon rise.

Lamppost. Helsingborg, 2025

Earlier this year, I started to experiment with creating impressionist images using multiple exposures. It’s an old technique that is new to me. I find it to be quite difficult as it requires a lot of forethought. Even with a lot of planning, the results vary wildly, and I am often not able to create what I had in mind. Not surprisingly, most of the imagery I made was garbage, but here is one that I like. I took it while waiting for my wife as we toured through Helsingborg.

She had gone up to the top of Kärnan, a very tall medieval tower (and a recommended stop if you are ever in this town). Of course, since I have severe vertigo, going with her was a non-starter. I spotted this lovely lamppost and had started to take my sequence of photos when someone walked past me. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to capture them in the last frame. I like the abstraction yet the person stands out in the frame. Perhaps a bit of humanity showing through in an otherwise chaotic world?

As soon as I am finished with school, I am going to go back to this technique and explore it a bit more.

Tre. Malmo 2025

This is another of my impressionist attempts using the very challenging multiple exposure method. It is actually a test shot, but it evokes memories of reading Beatrix Potter books. It stayed in rotation on our kitchen display because I kept expecting to see Peter Rabbit appear at some point.

Tre og familie. Göteborg, 2025

This is the third impressionist image in this set. I took it while we walked through Kungsparken in Gothenburg. Just like in my other image in this style, someone happened to walk past as I was capturing my images. I took advantage of the moment, waiting until they were exactly where I wanted them before taking the final frame.

Hatsuhinoiri. Calgary, 2025

A lot of heat and energy in Calgary comes from burning natural gas, a process that releases a lot of water vapour into the cold air. Here you can see vapour from a concrete plant (on the left) and a power generator (on the right). The vapour adds to the cloudscape in the huge prairie sky, a wonderful canvas on which the sun can paint its colours.

This image is of the first sunset of 2025 looking west from Nose Hill Park in Calgary. While it was too cloudy that morning to observe hatsuhinode, the Japanese term for the first sunrise of the year, my granddaughter and I were more than happy to watch hatsuhinoiri, the first sunset of the year.

Chinook Building. Calgary, 2025

This is another example of how dramatic the sky can be at sunset on the Canadian Prairies. In this case, what I find appealing is the empty, negative space created by the darker cloud cover, the flecks of light that give it a sense of shape and dimension, and the way the water vapour links the buildings to the cloud, making it seem as if the vapour created the cloud, not a Chinook starting to build its Arch over the city.

Modern ranchers. Alberta, 2025

Early one morning, my granddaughter and I were out driving near Pincher Creek when we spotted these cows grazing beneath a set of wind turbines.

Bird blind. Frank Lake, 2025

I introduced my granddaughter to the cacophony that is the Frank Lake Bird Sanctuary. I think she likes the place as much as I do. While we were there, I stopped to take yet another photo of the bird blind—a place where I have spent many a long hour observing the birds that call Frank Lake home.

Mountain Lines. The Icefields Parkway, 2024

I took this – the second of two collaborative images in this year’s collection – while driving up the Icefields Parkway on my Christmas trip with my granddaughter. She liked the lines on Mount Kitchener and asked me to take its picture. So I did.

The Toe of the Glacier. The Icefields Parkway, 2024

While driving up the Icefields Parkway, my granddaughter and I decided to hike to the Athabasca Glacier. Just after we started, we noticed a storm coming down the mountain. I let her make the call on if (or when) we should turn around, and I am happy to say she made the right decision well before it was too late.

Castle Mountain. Banff, 2025

Castle Mountain has been a landmark for me for well over 55 years and the subject of many of my photos. However, this shot is particularly poignant. I took it while my granddaughter and I were on what might be our last Christmas hiking and camping trip together. No surprise then that it has been on my visual “playlist” all year. My fingers are crossed that I am wrong and that we will have a couple more trips. Maybe my grandson and my newest granddaughter will be able to join us!

Moonset in the Badlands. Patricia, 2024

My granddaughter and I were camping in the Badlands over Christmas last year when she got a severe nosebleed. Two hours later, we had no more clean towels and she was still bleeding heavily, so I decided to take her to the ER.

It was 11:00 p.m., very dark, and the ER was over an hour away through deer-infested farm country. I topped up with a mega dose of caffeine to ensure I was alert enough to avoid hitting a deer on the way. We were at the hospital all night, and I kept topping up my caffeine reserve for the eventual drive back to camp.

When we finally got back the next morning, she crashed in the camper while I had to go burn off the excess caffeine. As I was walking around, I saw the moon setting behind this hill.

Cascade Mountain. Christmas Day, 2024.

This image of Cascade, another life-long landmark for me, shares a striking similarity to the Badlands photo. Not visual, of course, but emotional. It, too, was taken during my Christmas trip with my granddaughter. We spent another night in the ER trying to stop a nosebleed. Once again, she slept the next morning while I went out to burn off excess caffeine. While I have many images of Cascade in my collection, this one has the strongest emotional memory.

Noctilucent clouds. Sognsvann, 2025

I have been hunting noctilucent clouds for a long time, and this is the first image of them that I have managed to get. Noctilucent clouds (NLCs), or ‘night-shining clouds,’ are the thin, ragged, electric-blue streaks you see here.

They are the highest clouds in Earth’s atmosphere, sitting about 75 to 85 kilometres above the surface. For context, regular weather clouds rarely exceed 10 to 15 km. NLCs are made of tiny ice crystals forming on suspended dust particles—likely left over from meteors or volcanic ash.

NLCs are too faint to be seen during the day, appearing only when the sun is at a specific angle below the horizon and can illuminate them from below. This usually happens 90-120 minutes after sunset or before sunrise during the summer months (late May to mid-August in the north). They are mostly visible between 50° and 70° latitude—places like the UK, the Nordics, Canada, and Northern Russia.

As with everyone interested in NLCs, my challenge has always been timing: on nights I was free to go look for them, they were either absent or obscured by lower cloud cover. You can see lower clouds rolling in here, so I was indeed lucky.

Interestingly, human activity is likely increasing their frequency. Greenhouse gases like methane produce more water vapour in the upper atmosphere, creating brighter displays. Some scientists also believe water vapour from rocket launches has created or enhanced these clouds.

Speaking of human activity, I almost didn’t get this image because of human activity. I arrived at the location around 1 a.m. and left around 3:30 a.m. During the 2.5 hours I was there, I spent at most 15 minutes taking photographs and over 2 hours speaking with various people who were wandering by and stopped for a chat! One old man (into his eighties) was heading into one of the ‘stuer’—traditional forest lodges that function like cafes, serving coffee, waffles, and pastries. He figured he was too slow these days, so had to leave in the middle of the night in order to arrive at opening time. He planned to have a coffee and a waffle and then do the return hike. Talk about resilience and determination! I also met two young engineering students who were out hoping to see the Northern Lights. We had a grand “career” chat where I, of course, provided all of my advice and told many “back in my day” stories, all the while sipping on my hot cocoa, almost oblivious to the NLC show behind me, except for one moment when I turned around and pressed the shutter button for this image.

So while I could consider this a “technical” image, one I expected to take in solitude in the middle of the night in a forest, it is instead very much a “human” one — it links me immediately to the warm energy I received from the others as I filled my extroverted emotional fuel tank.

Måker på biblioteket #1. Oslo, 2025

Anne-Catharina Vestly was a famous Norwegian author. She received many honours for her work, including the naming of Anne-Cath. Vestlys plass in front of the main Oslo library (Deichman Bjørvika). The square features a shallow basin that the city fills with water so people can skate on it in the winter.

On a warm, overcast day, I stopped to watch some gulls standing in the meltwater. They were oblivious to the masses of people surrounding them. I thought a bit about how gulls have adapted to urban life and set out to capture their interaction with humans (which is to say, they largely ignore us unless there is food in the offing).

This is one of two images I took there that continued to interest me all year.

Måker på biblioteket #2. Oslo, 2025

This is the second image that I took while people-and-gull watching at Anne-Cath. Vestlys plass. I like seeing both the human and the bird in motion.

Høstfarger på Bogstad. Oslo, 2025

The fall colours were lovely this year, but unfortunately, I didn’t have the time to properly plan when and where to go. For example, I missed the prime window here at Bogstad Manor (another Oslo landmark) by about a week. You will have to fill in the missing colours with your mind’s eye. Hopefully, I will catch the full show next year.

Tre og mann. Moss, 2025

While walking along a farm road near Moss, I noticed a man camped out reading (or perhaps watching a video). I waited for several minutes to see if he would pack up under the threat of an impending thunderstorm, but I chickened out and headed for my car before he left.

Beauty Everywhere! Oslo, 2025

On a particularly foggy day down at Operahuset, I was not seeing anything worthwhile and was contemplating going home when I spotted a man (perhaps a tourist?) who had found something worth taking a photo of. Was it the gull? Something else? I will never know, but for me, the charm of this image is spotting a kindred spirit, out looking for beauty despite the weather.

MAD Bikes. Oslo, 2025

These are the most distinctive, stylized bicycle racks that I have ever seen. The Norwegian architectural firm MAD arkitekter designed them for the Barcode project.

My first reaction standing there in the dark, alone, surrounded by tall buildings, looking at the minimalist stainless steel forms with their white and red LED lights, was that I was on the set of the neo-noir film “Dark City”. I whipped out my iPhone and grabbed this image, fully intending to go back later when I had more time to compose properly and use a camera with better noise performance. But I never went back. This has been one of the lessons I learned this past year: the only thing that matters is if the image carries the weight of the emotion I felt at that moment: standing there, excited to see something new and thoughtful.

The emotion of a personal encounter is something that AI-generated images, striving for perfect, noiseless compositions, will never have, nor be able to replace. Maybe that is why people still play chess, long after AI demonstrated that it can beat any human at any time.

If you would prefer to view these images in high resolution as a gallery, you can view the Google Photos album here: https://photos.app.goo.gl/fG3D2Hf8YwsJVUF7A